


'tis the season

by alongthewires



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewires/pseuds/alongthewires
Summary: 31 days of holiday ficlets. Hopefully.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	'tis the season

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Drawlight's [Advent prompts](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been).

London, 1823

"Now that's just rude, if you'd not wanted to hang out with me, you could have just said," It is, of course, meant to be a joke directed at the sprig of mistletoe that Aziraphale has positioned himself by, one of many decorating the ballroom they've both found themselves in. Some kind of Christmas party they scored an invite to, on the pretense of doing their respective demonic/angelic work, when in all likelihood they'll both drink a lot of free wine and enjoy the excuse to be in other's company. Heaven and Hell are always busy this time of year, giving the pair of Earthly agents a little breathing room.

Crowley doesn't expect Aziraphale to arch an eyebrow at him, a hint of amusement at the edge of his smile, in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, "Really, Crowley, I thought you far better at keeping up with customs, no one has used mistletoe to ward off demons for centuries, and I can't imagine it ever worked, anyway."

Aziraphale is right, of course, at least in one respect. There's very few things that humans have come up with that successfully ward off demons, but Crowley's always liked the mistletoe one. A pretty little plant that happens to be poisonous? It's right up his alley. The angel is also correct in that Crowley, apparently, hasn't been keeping up with local customs, which really isn't his fault; he's been over in China for the past few decades, hasn't really paid much attention to what's happening in England aside from the occasional correspondence with Aziraphale.

"Are you going to enlighten me, then?" Crowley's struck with the impression that he's being played like a fiddle, which isn't _new_ ; when it comes to the two of them. This is part of the game they play with each other, Aziraphale gets to pretend to be innocent, as if he doesn't have a demon absolutely wrapped around his fingers, and in turn, Crowley gets to pretend that he isn't disgustingly soft for an angel. Paris comes to mind, that terribly see-through excuse about _crepes_ , of all things.

"I _believe_ —" There it is, the amusement Crowley had seen in Aziraphale's eyes is creeping into his voice now, "That if a lady and a gentleman find themselves under a sprig of mistletoe, it's expected they share a kiss."

It's a near thing that Crowley doesn't discorporate on the spot. It isn't just the prospect of a kiss, but the way Aziraphale sounds as he suggests it, the twinkle in his eye. This, right here, is what always _gets_ Crowley, that hint of a clever bastard underneath the facade of a virtuous angel, something sharp hiding under the fussy Englishman (who is neither English, nor a man, though he certainly is fussy). Crowley's mouth has gone dry, but he manages to find his voice, manages to keep it at least somewhat steady. 

"Can't say you've ever struck me as the type to go about kissing _ladies_ ," Not that Crowley has spent any amount of time thinking about whether or not Aziraphale goes about kissing people, ladies or otherwise. But there's no denying that there's a point in the way Aziraphale dresses, in how he presents himself, in the company he keeps. They're subtle clues, never enough to draw the wrong kind of attention. People who are looking, though, will know how to read between the lines. Crowley is, of course, always watching Aziraphale closely; he hadn't quite known what to make of the realization when it had first dawned on him, but now it's just one more thing about Aziraphale that he loves. This quiet little rebellion against human norms.

"Yes, well," Perfectly manicured fingers find the edge of a waistcoat, adjusting it despite the fact it's already sitting perfectly, a nervous little tic. There's a hint of colour on Aziraphale's cheeks and Crowley gives himself an internal high-five for managing to gain back a bit of ground, "That isn't the _tradition_ , dear boy."

They're breaking out the big guns, apparently. They both know how weak he is to those terms of endearment. Crowley can't help the little hum of laughter, even if his heart is going at the rate of a hummingbird's wings. He's had a lot of practice in this area, keeping himself steady despite his wayward emotions. It wasn't always like this, but Aziraphale has grown bolder over the millennia, more comfortable in how he approaches Crowley. Ever since Rome, really, since they first shared a meal, though the excuse of the Arrangement has certainly helped.

"Right, of course, shame neither of us are ladies, we can't do much with this little tradition of theirs," Neither of them are strictly gentlemen, either, but at least both of them are dressed that way right now. Aziraphale seems to have really settled into this century's fashion, something tells Crowley he's going to be seeing waistcoats and sand-coloured slacks for decades to come.

Watching from the corner of his eye, Crowley sees the amusement from Aziraphale spread into a _smirk_ , which is the only warning he gets before there's a press of lips against his cheek, featherlight and warm for a few brief seconds. And then they're gone, leaving a burning mark on his cheek that he hopes is just in his imagination, and isn't the telling start of a blush, "One must make do with what they've got, I always say."

Crowley makes a sound that he hopes comes across as agreement, knowing better than to trust his voice as he watches Aziraphale reach to pluck one of the white berries from the mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas, my dear."

"Merry Christmas, angel."


End file.
